The History of Sir Richard Calmady: A Romance
inexpressibly touching in the tones of Julius March's voice as he read
of the young Galilean prophet "going about and doing good"--simple and
gracious record of human tenderness and pity, upon which, in the course
of centuries, the colossal fabric of the modern Christianity, Catholic
and Protestant, has been built up.
"'And great multitudes came to Him,'" read Julius, "'having with them
those that were lame, blind, dumb, maimed, and many others, and cast
them down at Jesus' feet, and He healed them; insomuch that the
multitude marveled when they saw the dumb to speak, and the maimed to
be whole, and the lame to walk----'"
How simple it all sounded in that sweet, old-world story! And yet how
lamentably, in striving to accomplish just these same things, his own
far-reaching science failed!
"'The maimed to be whole, the lame to walk'"--involuntarily he looked
round at the boy beside him.
Richard leaned back in his stall, tired with the long day and its
varying emotions. His eyes were half closed, and his profile showed
pale as wax against the background of dark woodwork. His eyebrows were
drawn into a slight frown, and his face bore a peculiar expression of
reticence. Once he glanced up at the reader, as though on a sudden a
pleasant thought occurred to him. But the movement was a passing one.
He leaned back in his stall again and folded his arms, with a movement
of quiet pride, almost of contempt.
Later that night, as her custom was, Katherine opened the door of
Richard's room softly, and entering bent over his bed in the warm
dimness to give him a last look before going to rest herself. To-night
Dickie was awake. He put his arms round her coaxingly.
"Stay a little, mummy darling," he said. "I am not a bit sleepy. I want
to talk."
Katherine sat down on the edge of the bed. All the mass of her hair was
unbound, and fell in a cloud about her to the waist. Richard, leaning
on one elbow, gathered it together, held and kissed it. He was
possessed by the sense of his mother's great beauty. She seemed so
magnificently far removed from all that is coarse, spoiled, or
degraded. She seemed so superb, so exquisite a personage. So he gazed
at her, kissed her hair, and gently touched her arms, where the open
sleeves of her white dressing-gown left them bare, in reverential
ecstasy.
Katherine became almost perplexed.
"My dearest, what is it?" she asked at last.
"Oh! it's only that you're so perfect, mother," he said. "You make me
feel so safe somehow. I'm never afraid when you are there."
"Afraid of what?" she asked. A hope came upon her that he had grown
nervous of riding, and wanted her to help him to retire gracefully from
the matter. But his next words undeceived her. He threw himself back
against the pillow and clasped his hands under his head.
"That's just it," he said. "I don't know exactly what I am afraid of,
and yet I do get awfully scared at times. I suppose, mother, if one's
in a good position--the position we're in, you know--nobody can ill-use
one very much?"
Lady Calmady's eyes blazed with indignation. "Ill-use you? Who has ever
dared to hint at, to dream of such a thing, dear Richard?"
"Oh, no one--no one! Only I can't help wondering about things, you
know. And some--some people do get most awfully ill-used. I can't help
seeing that."
Katherine paused before answering. The boy did not look at her. She
spoke with quiet conviction, her eyes gazing out into the dimness of
the room.
"I know," she said, almost reluctantly. "And perhaps it is as well you
should know it too, though it is sad knowledge. People are not always
very considerate of one another. But ill-usage cannot touch you, my
dearest. You are saved by love, by position, by wealth."
"You are sure of that, mother?"
"Sure? Of course I am sure, darling," she answered. Yet even while
speaking her heart sank.
Richard remained silent for a space. Then he said, with certain
hesitancy: "Mother, tell me, it is true then that I am rich?"
"Quite true, Dick."
"But sometimes people lose their money."
Katherine smiled.--"Your money is not kept in a stocking, dearest."
"I don't suppose it is," the boy said, turning towards her. "But don't
banks break?"
"Yes, banks break. But a good many broken banks would not affect you.
It is too long a story to tell you now, Dickie, but your income is very
safe. It would almost need a revolution to ruin you. You are rich now;
and I am able to save considerable sums for you yearly."
"It's--it's awfully good of you to take so much trouble for me,
mother," he interrupted, stroking her bare arm again delicately.
To Katherine his half-shy endearments were the most delicious thing in
life--so delicious that at moments she could hardly endure them. They
made her heart too full.
"Eight years hence, when you come of age and I give account of my
stewardship, you will be very rich," she said.
Richard lay quite still, his eyes again fixed on the dimness.
"That--that's good news," he said at last, drawing a long breath. "I
saw things to-day, mother, while we were driving. It was nobody's
fault. There was a fair with a menagerie and shows at Farley Row. I
couldn't help seeing. Don't ask me about it, mother. I'd rather forget,
if I can. Only it made me understand that it is safer for any
one--well, any one like--me--don't you know, to be rich."
Richard sat up, flung his arms round her and kissed her with sudden
passion.
"Beautiful mother, honey-sweet mother," he cried, "you've told me just
everything I wanted to know. I won't be afraid any more." Then he
added, in a charming little tone of authority: "Now you mustn't stay
here any longer. You must be tired. You must go to bed and go to
sleep."
BOOK III
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH OUR HERO'S WORLD GROWS SENSIBLY WIDER
In the autumn of 1862 Richard Calmady went up to Oxford. Not through
ostentation, but in obedience to the exigencies of the case, his going
was in a somewhat princely sort, so that the venerable city, moved from
the completeness of her scholarly and historic calm, turned her eyes,
in a flutter of quite mundane excitement, upon the newcomer. Julius
March accompanied Richard. Time and thought had moved forward; but the
towers and spires of Oxford, her fair cloisters and enchanting gardens,
her green meadows and noble elms, her rivers, Isis and Cherwell,
remained as when Julius too had been among the young and ardent of her
sons. He was greatly touched by this return to the Holy City of his
early manhood. He renewed old friendships. He reviewed the past, taking
the measure calmly of what life had promised, what it had given of
good. A pleasant house had been secured in St. Giles' Street; and a
contingent of the Brockhurst household, headed by Winter, went with the
two gentlemen, while Chaplin and a couple of grooms preceded them, in
charge of a goodly number of horse-boxes.
For that first saddle, fashioned now some six years ago by Josiah
Appleyard of Farley Row, had worked something as near a miracle as ever
yet was worked by pigskin. It was a singularly ugly saddle, running up
into a peak front and back, furnished with a complicated system of
straps and buckles and--in place of stirrups and stirrup-leathers--with
a pair of contrivances resembling old-fashioned holsters. Mary
Cathcart's brown eyes had grown moist on first beholding it. And
Colonel Ormiston had exclaimed, "Good God! Oh, well, poor dear little
chap, I suppose it's the best we can do for him." An ugly saddle--yet
had Josiah Appleyard ample reason to skip, goat-like, being glad. For,
ugly or not, it fulfilled its purpose, bringing custom to the maker and
happiness and health to the owner of it.
The boy rode fearlessly, while exercise and exertion begot in him a
certain light-heartedness and audacity good to see. The window-seat of
the Long Gallery, the book-shelves of the library, knew him but seldom
now. He was no less courteous, no less devoted to his mother, no less
in admiration of her beauty; but the young barbarian was well awake in
Dickie, and drove him out of doors, on to the moorland or into the
merry greenwood, with dog, and horse, and gun. On his well-broken pony
he shot over the golden stubble fields in autumn, brought down his
pheasants, stationed at the edge of the great coverts; went out for
long afternoons, rabbiting in the warrens and field banks, escorted by
spaniels and retrievers, and keepers carrying lithe, lemon-coloured
ferrets tied up in a bag.
Later, when he was older,--but this tried Katherine somewhat, reminding
her too keenly of another Richard Calmady and days long dead,--Winter,
a trifle reluctant at such shortening of his own virtuous slumbers,
would call Dickie and dress him, all in the gray of the summer morning;
while, at the little arched doorway in the west front, Chifney and a
groom with a led horse would await his coming, and the boy would mount
and ride away from the great, sleeping house. At such times a charm of
dewy freshness lay on grass and woodland, on hill and vale. The morning
star grew pale and vanished in the clear-flashing delight of sunrise,
as Richard rode forth to meet the string of racers; as he noted the
varying form and fortune of Rattlepate or Sweet Rosemary, of Yellow
Jacket, Morion or Light-o'-Love, over the short fragrant turf of the
gallop; as he felt the virile joy which the strength of the horses and
the pounding rush of them as they swept past him ever aroused in him.
Then he would ride on, by a short cut, to the old, red-brick
rubbing-house, crowning the rising ground on the farther side of the
lake, and wait there to see the finish, talking of professional matters
with Chifney meanwhile; or, turning his horse's head towards the wide,
distant view, sit silent, drawing near to nature and worshipping--with
the innocent gladness of a still virgin heart--in the temple of the
dawn.
Life at Oxford was set in a different key. The university city was well
disposed towards this young man of so great wealth and so strange
fortunes; and Richard was unsuspicious, and ready enough to meet
friendliness half-way. Yet it must be owned he suffered many bad
quarters of an hour. He was, at once, older in thought and younger in
practical experience than his fellow-undergraduates. He was cut off, of
necessity, from their sports. They would eat his breakfasts, drink his
wine, and show no violent objection to riding his horses. They were
considerate, almost anxiously careful of him, being generous and
good-hearted lads. And yet poor Dick was perturbed by the fear that
they were more at ease without him, that his presence acted as a slight
check upon their genial spirits and their rattling talk. And so it came
about that though his acquaintances were many, his friends were few.
Chief among the latter was Ludovic Quayle, a younger son of Lord
Fallowfeild--whom that kindly if not very intelligent nobleman had long
ago proposed to export from the Whitney to the Brockhurst nursery with
a view to the promotion of general cheerfulness. Mr. Ludovic Quayle was
a rather superfine, young gentleman, possessed of an excellent opinion
of himself, and a modest opinion of other persons--his father included.
But under his somewhat supercilious demeanour there was a vein of true
romance. He loved Richard Calmady; and neither time, nor opposing
interests, nor certain black chapters which had later to be read in the
history of life, destroyed or even weakened that love.
And so Dick, finding himself at sad disadvantage with most of the
charming young fellows about him in matters of play, turned to matters
of work, letting go the barbarian side of life for a while. In brain,
if not in body, he believed himself the equal of the best of them. His